The House That Loneliness Built
by somandalicious
Summary: Lonely, Hermione learns to adjust the claim on her heart. HGDM Written for the dmhgficexchange at livejournal.


I.

Hermione Granger is always up before her alarm sounds and she would like to say it is because she's a morning person. Cheerfully jumping from the bed to greet the morning with a bright grin and a "Hello world! Here I come." You know, a real go-getter. But she's not and she doesn't.

In all actuality, she's hiding under the comforter from Crookshanks because he's hungry, demanding and doesn't understand that unlike him, she can't nap on a whim. He's rude and relentless and so LOUD. Batting at her toes and pouncing on her face. A really bratty cat.

Still, when the alarm finally sounds, she is already standing in the kitchen in her baggy pajama bottoms and over-sized t-shirt, chatting to Crooks whilst she butters her toast.

Momentarily she thinks this is as good as life gets.

Sometimes the thought fills her with joy. Most of the time, though, she is ashamed.

II.

She prefers to sip her cocktail. Not because she's pretending to be dainty and lady-like. Well mannered with proper sensibilities. But because when she drinks a lot, her face gets flushed and she talks too much. She thinks she becomes ridiculous and her dignity won't allow that.

It alienates her from the merry-making. She stands alone next to the overly decorated Christmas tree in a pretty, navy dress and sips her cocktail. Watching; a pretty smile pressed upon her mouth. Mostly to convince everyone that she's enjoying herself immensely, thank you. Why yes, it is a lovely party and perhaps later she'll dance and sing a bit of karaoke.

But she isn't. She's miserable because _he_ is flirting with Hannah Abbott and probably telling her silly anecdotes about working with George at the shop. Reveling in the clever shenanigans that they get up to, and golly, can she believe he gets paid to goof off all day? Honestly, it is only the best job ever; would she like to hear what they are working on next?

In order for Hermione to distract herself, she scans the party until her focus lands on Harry and Pansy in the corner. She's talking to him softly and he's leaning in with a satisfied smile upon his mouth. They touch constantly. They kiss intermittently. Their love and passion for one another is so obvious. So blinding and it radiates off of them in great waves of ambiance. It isn't disgustingly mushy or tritely annoying. It's real and it falls over everyone near until they are inspired to capture even an ounce of what Harry and Pansy share.

She studies them, learning from their behavior and inwardly aspires to own a love like that someday.

It's all she can do to ignore Ron and the painful weight of rejection in her heart.

She pretends too that she doesn't notice Draco Malfoy staring at her from the bar.

She's afraid of what he sees.

III.

Hotel rooms are something she secretly loves. She unpacks everything and investigates every nook and cranny with the wonderment of a child. Then she likes to stand in the middle and wonder if she could live in such a small space. What would day to day life be like? Perhaps Crookshanks would nap just there, on the desk by the window. And maybe she would have someone to share the queen-sized bed in the center.

Only this time there isn't a queen-sized bed in the center of the room. Instead a night stand divides two double beds. Her beaded bag is still unpacked and resting at the foot of her bed, upon which she lies curled and facing the wall.

Behind her Draco Malfoy stretches his long legs on his bed, quietly _smoking_ his fag. His cloak is strewn over the chair, his shiny loafers are kicked off in the middle of the floor and his briefcase lies open, its contents scattered over the desk.

He is disorderly, flagrant, careless and everywhere. He infiltrates her space like a giant pink elephant. Impossible to ignore and awkward to acknowledge.

She doesn't know how to deal with him. How to broach the topic of how he came to be her partner. She had never needed one before.

Being a claims adjuster for a Magical Insurance company requires a studious eye, extensive knowledge of the rules, the ability to follow protocol and the aptitude to recognize the truth.

Her acquaintance with Draco Malfoy never gave her the inclination that he was capable of any of these requirements. She always guessed that he didn't share the same values and morals as her. He wasn't someone who could objectively assess the problem and to create an accurately fair solution for both the client and the company. One had to use lists, charts, diagrams and evidence from a thorough investigation to come to that conclusion.

There is nothing about Draco Malfoy to evince that he is able to do exactly that, and justly.

She doesn't know what that means to her and she wallows in the woe of being tied to him. She wants to go back to being on her own. She doesn't like change. She wants normality back. Her desire for it is painful and raw, and she chokes on it.

It's one of those moments when all she can do is grip a crumpled picture of her and Ron. He tweaks her nose playfully and she blushes. He waves to the camera and she can only look at him. Unrequited love and adoration twinkling in her eyes.

A tear rolls down her cheek but her thick curls soak it up before it has a chance to hit the pillow.

Hermione laments all the things she wants and doesn't have.

IV.

Her plum-colored quill comes to a dead stop on her clipboard, and Hermione's eyes widen as she stares at him. She is appalled at his audacity. That he would even have the nerve to suggest that the client would flood his own Apothecary just because he wanted to get out of the business.

Sure, everything is ruined. All the stock, equipment and shelving are completely beyond salvage. It would take more funds than the property was worth to fix the damage, as she had already assessed. A big red stamp with the words _Total loss. Repair Improbable_ would grace the front of the claim. The client would be reimbursed and could do with the money whatever he wished. That was fair, courteous and accurate.

But to say that the client would willingly ruin his business? That was absurd, rude and unlikely.

Hermione voices her opposition, with great indignation. She becomes so vehement that her hair begins to frizz exponentially and crackles with the fury of her magic. Her cheeks flush pink as her diatribe pours from her mouth, and with eyes biting she tells Draco Malfoy exactly what she thinks of him.

What she doesn't expect is for him to stand there so calmly, soaking up her anger with more fortitude than she had ever afforded him. The only sign of his displeasure is his mercurial glare that leaves her feeling vulnerable, transparent and self-conscious.

Then he touches her. He reaches out and his fingers fall upon her shoulder. There is an electric shock and, breaking off from her tangent, she jerks away.

They stare at each other.

She feels overwrought and exhausted, like she has been crying for millennia. Her chest is heavy and her throat is lumped. But she feels refreshed. As though a weight has been lifted and now her soul can soar.

Flying moments pass and then she clears her throat, forcing her eyes to look everywhere but at him. She suggests they get back to work and turns her back.

But she knows he's still watching her.

She decides that is not a bad thing.

V.

Hermione loves takeaway. She smooths the wrapper over the bed with meticulous diligence. Her ravenous appetite is ferocious but well–checked, and patiently, she carefully separates her chips from her fish, and when she's finished, claps her hands together and appreciates her handy work.

But she's not alone, as she has forgotten, and he's smirking bemusedly.

She huffs and picks up a chip. She doesn't like her food touching, she tells him.

He chuckles and she pretends she's annoyed.

She's not. Because for once, she doesn't feel alone.

VI.

It's another hotel; another claim to adjust. It's routine. A misfired spell and damage to a home. He takes the pictures and she interviews the clients. They never speak directly to each other, but trade glances every now and then.

She feels alive. Her body is buzzing and everything is a bit more vibrant, a bit more interesting. Hermione smiles while she listens to the woman try to justify why exactly she attempted to hex her husband. The witch is a force to reckon with. An over-bearing nag, in Hermione's opinion.

She mentally chastises herself for not being objective and as her and Draco leave the home they hear the witch complaining to her husband that he just should've done as she asked and removed the rubbish.

Later, they analyze the data, debate the issues and try to come to a unanimous conclusion. Draco makes a derogatory comment, offhandedly, that pities the husband and is incredibly offensive to the wife.

Instead of being appalled and then admonishing him for not being polite, Hermione laughs so hard that she falls back upon the bed and clutches her stomach.

She laughs until she cries. She laughs until her side stitches.

She laughs so much that she misses the grin that stretches across his face.

VII.

An owl arrives and Hermione is so excited that she jumps around on her bed like a child. Ron wrote her! Ron wrote her! Ron wrote her!

Her glee is interrupted by the slam of the hotel room door.

Her curiosity as to why he left is over-shadowed by her interest in the letter's contents.

She sits criss-cross applesauce on the bed and tucks her hair behind her ear. Her eyes devour the words. She misses him too. She's very well. Oh, she's glad to hear that Harry passed his test. But what? He's engaged? To Hannah Abbott?

Hermione slowly drops her body backward, her hand releasing the letter. No tears come. She's surprised that emptiness does have a feeling. Numbness.

Her heart quietly breaks in the cold afternoon sun in a far away hotel room. It makes no sound and there is nobody around to witness her tragedy. Of the realization dawning over her. She's always known this was going to happen. Because he was never hers to have.

She's alone again and all she can think is that for once, she wishes someone out there wanted her.

She doesn't know that down in the bar, he's drinking firewhisky.

He's looking at a picture of her. The one he took just the day before when she wasn't looking.

VIII.

It was a potions explosion and thankfully there are no casualties. A few cuts and contusions, maybe a concussion or two. Yet the laboratory is reduced to a pile of rubble.

She talks with the client, the director of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. She interviews. She notes. She scours.

She's tired. Emotionally. And she just can't stop thinking about Ron and Hannah. Harry and Pansy.

She's tired of being alone and the tears fall uncontrollably and her body wracks with sobs.

Draco stands near her and puts his palm on her shoulder. Tells her not to worry about the paperwork. He'll do it.

Without thought she suddenly moves to her knees and grabs the collar of his white crisp oxford in her fist. Her mouth crashes against his and it is bizarre and hectic.

But she feels.

And when his arms wrap around her and pull her closer, when his tongue delves deeper, she feels wanted and adored. Dainty, womanly and sorta sexy. She definitely doesn't feel alone.

His fingers tangle in her hair and he moans into her mouth and she reaches for his belt buckle.

She needs him. She wants him. Because he's there and warm, and oh how wickedly he kisses.

But just as quickly as the candent flame consumed them, he pulls away from her.

His face is flushed and his eyes are dark and intent. His breathing is deep like hers.

She doesn't understand why he stopped. Why? Why? Why? Maybe he doesn't want her.

He's not a proxy for Weasley and he refuses to act as one. Weasley is stupid, he says, and blind.

Hermione is pretty and charming and just so smart and interesting and when she gets mad, well it's the most amazing thing he's ever seen and he's always wanted her and that's why he asked to be her partner. But he doesn't want to be someone to fill the void in her heart. He won't. He can't.

Draco leaves.

Hermione is at a loss for what to do.

Rejection mixes with realization and it commandeers her mind until an empty sleep finds her.

IX.

When she wakes, she notices the air is different. He's gone. Where? She doesn't know. There is nothing left of him but a picture upon his pillow.

It's of her, when she'd been standing next to the bitter old witch who had tried to hex her husband.

It's a little out of focus, and her hair is blowing in the wind, blocking part of her face, but she is smiling. She looks happy and Hermione tries to remember what she was thinking at that time.

It doesn't take her long to recall that she was thinking that Draco was handsome and quiet and what was his favorite color?

It occurs to her that maybe they aren't so different. They both knew the tragedy of unrequited fancies, of despairing loneliness.

She puts the picture in her beaded bag along with the rest of her belongings.

There is something she has to do.

X.

Draco Malfoy lives on the second floor of a flat in Diagon Alley. His door is blue. It's early morning and he's wearing nothing but sleep flannels. His hair is disheveled and his eyes are laden with sleep. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. As if the hard-wood is just too cold for his bare feet. It's incredibly endearing and tremendously intriguing.

She's not sorry she woke him, but tells him that she is anyway.

He doesn't mind, he tells her. He wonders why she's here.

He forgot something and she wanted to return it. She hands him the picture but he doesn't take it. He doesn't offer any explanation or anything. He just stares at her.

Hermione is scared. What if she's wrong? What if this was a really bad idea because she knows nothing about him and she's not even sure if she totally likes him, but she thought she'd take a chance, for once and well, what _is_ his favorite color anyway?

He smirks and invites her in.


End file.
